


The Flying Gyatso

by Sosostris



Series: that which you fought [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender, Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Gen, I don't know if they are psychologically healthier in this one or not, Protective Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:20:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24338053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sosostris/pseuds/Sosostris
Summary: Bumi’s Circus: One night only, in Republic City!From the Southern Air Temple, a genuine high-wire act like you’ve never seen!
Series: that which you fought [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1757080
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	The Flying Gyatso

_Bumi’s Circus: One night only, in Republic City!_

_From the Southern Air Temple, a genuine high-wire act like you’ve never seen!_

***

When Katara thinks about it—if she must think—the beginning of the end was fishballs-on-a-stick.

The ringmaster had been barely thirty seconds into his patter when Sokka smacked his forehead, muttered “shucks, we forgot to get snacks,” and ignored their father’s proffered pentapus-yaki.

“Excuse me,” Katara hissed, as they clambered out of their seats.

Because, yes, the ringmaster’s spiel was not exactly riveting rhetoric, and no, a night at the circus was not what two teenagers would consider an enjoyable evening, but they were here to celebrate Dad’s promotion and distract him from the divorce, so—“Would it kill you to go an hour without food?”

“I’m a growing lad!” Sokka rejoined, then chirped “We’ll be just a minute!” while Dad raised his eyes fondly to heaven (fond exasperation, at least; Sokka’d settle for that).

As he steered Katara down the narrow aisle, back towards the concession stands that surrounded the big top, he added in an earnest tone, “I’m serious, sis, I don’t want to miss the dancing bear.”

The problem, of course, was that it took more than just a minute.

In their defence, it was dim and the tents’ set-up ramshackle, so instead of getting fried fishballs, Sokka just got _lost_.

***

A bison lowed, too close for comfort.

“There’s no food this way,” Katara said through gritted teeth.

With the show getting into full swing—a merry tune wafted through the smoky night, a reminder that _they were missing the show_ —the fairgrounds were almost eerily deserted, while they blundered about in an area that was (in _retrospect_ ) the opposite side of the circus from the hawker stalls.

“Okay, okay.”

Sokka rubbed at his face, a nervous gesture that betrayed his concession to his sister. “Should we take a left here, then, or a—Hey! What gives?”

However much he played the fool, his reflexes were none too shabby, but he still skipped just narrowly out of the way as someone pushed past in the dark and was gone in a whirl of dark silks.

 _We couldn’t even see their face, Lieutenant Jee_ , Katara explained later. _They had a—a sort of broad-brimmed hat on, and of course, the moon was new._

Sokka would add, a little lamely, _I thought they were one of the performers, I guess._

But for now, Sokka hardly had time to stumble before it happened all at once: the absence of music, its abrupt cut-off, louder than the show itself had been—shouts from the crowd.

And, Katara would imagine, though of course she could never have heard it—a dull, wet thud.

Then, above all of that, and much closer to hand, there was a higher, shriller cry, and a blinding flash of blue that shone through the gaps in the canvas.

“Oh, spirits!” The words caught in Sokka’s throat.

 _Fools rush in_ , Gran-Gran liked to say, but when had Katara ever run _from_ anything? Her hand closed tight on Sokka’s wrist, and she practically dragged him into the structure, skirt skimming the mud.

It must be part of the backstage—with the lack of light and people, likely the storage area, Sokka realised, picking out the props strewn about, his eyes already adjusting to different shades of gloom.

Further in, there _was_ a narrow sliver of light, and that must have been the passage where the curtains led to the ring. A small figure, round with childhood, was outlined against the gleam—a boy of ten, maybe, or twelve—and it was him who was screaming, _Teacher_ —

Then his silhouette started to sag, and Katara was still on her feet, rushing to catch the child as he crumpled. Sokka, a second behind, picked the strange wooden stave that fell from now-slack fingers.

“They cut the wire,” the boy whimpered, curling up with a sightless stare. “They cut the wire!”

Sokka’s phone was vibrating in his back pocket; he eased it free with his free hand.

“Dad,” he said, swiping to answer without looking. “We could do with some fresh-pressed Superintendent Hakoda right now.”

***

Chief Constable Yuliana said, her features schooled into impassivity, “I’m glad you were there this evening, general.” There was no suggestion in her tone that this was anything more than fortuitous.

“Not at all, not at all.” Iroh brushed off the courtesy. “I had been looking forward to the fire-breathing act, but naturally, under the”—a delicate note crept into his voice—“under the circumstances—well!”

Still idly rolling a cheap pai sho tile between thumb and forefinger, he cast a speculative glance at the tiny room behind the one-way glass. The tiny figure in the tiny room.

“So that’s the boy?”

“Aang,” Yuliana said, the enunciation careful. “He’s in shock, obviously, but he can answer questions; he told us his name. He may be some sort of refugee. The deceased was his guardian.”

The child with the wide eyes was clearly not from around these parts. His outlandish garb and blue tattoos indicated as much, if the fact that he had been part of a travelling show was not clue enough.

Now, _sans_ high-wire monk, he no longer had even the travelling show.

Bumi’s Circus couldn’t keep him on, its eponymous ringmaster and sometime-strongman had told Lieutenant Jee apologetically. No, they didn’t know that much about Aang—had taken him on, indeed, purely on the strength of the reputation of the late and lamented Flying Gyatso.

So _“excuse us, officers,” Bumi declared. “We have to get back on the road. We have a bear to feed.”_

In a different place, a philanthropist, however wealthy, however respected, would not have been able to waltz from the front-row seat to a crime scene, and straight into a cramped police station, to adopt the eyewitness of the tragic misadventure.

_(Case closed, Lieutenant Jee was told, even before the coroner was notified.)_

But, you see, Republic City is not that kind of town.

A birth certificate dragged out from the child’s backpack, his thumbprint here, the general’s signature there, and almost before Aang could process it, Bob—no, Iroh—was his uncle.

“I really think,” Iroh said to the boy, pleasantly and lightly, “that this is turning out for the best.

“I have a nephew, you see—I came to live with him, not too long ago. He was all alone before that—rather like you might have been! Oh, this is more than any of us might have expected.”

***

There was no conversation on the drive back to Sozin Manor, but that was to be expected, for the hour was late. Dawn’s rosy fingers were creeping across the horizon as Iroh deftly took the hairpin turns up the hill, with a bleary Aang watching through the passenger window.

Scarcely had the car pulled over in the driveway than a figure hurried down the front steps. A slim young man, no more than eighteen, with his hair drawn back into a tight bun and—was that a mask, like the spirit-faces that some of the performers in the circus wore? No, Aang realised; a birthmark, or a scar, angry and red, covered the youth’s pale skin and left him two-faced.

But it was outrage, not the ugly mark, that twisted the man’s features as he tugged the driver’s door open.

“Where have you been, Uncle?” he demanded. “I was up all night—worried sick—”

“Ah, worried for me, were you?” Iroh said, smiling, as though he had won a victory.

An arm, still sleeved in a deep red housecoat, was thrust accusingly at Aang. “And who is this?”

“Your great-grandfather.” Iroh leaned his head against his seat, his eyes shut, and he was still smiling.

“No, you will forgive an old man his little jokes. But see, Zuko, you came back into my life five years ago—you have made a grieving father very happy—and now I have been blessed with another ward.”

“Hello,” the boy murmured. He pressed his palms together and—still slightly wan, but polite to a fault—managed a wobbly bow. “My name is Aang. I hope we can be friends.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _Batman_ is one of my oldest fandoms, and the image of the winding drive up to Wayne Manor is straight out of the Timm and Dini cartoons.
> 
> Like _B:TAS_ , Republic City has some anachronistic 1930s vibes, although the _Korra_ showrunners erred in comparing the architecture to Manhattan—they should have gone for, say, colonial Shanghai.
> 
> I also owe a lot to the spiritual influence of Terry Pratchett: Gotham is an Ankh-Morpork without hope.
> 
> If you were wondering, Chief Constable Yuliana is a remixed Commissioner Gillian Loeb.
> 
> And I’m determined to write this universe with as little Disney-dead-mother syndrome as possible, so Kya is alive and fabulously gay just one town over, alright? Look, if _Supergirl_ could do it…


End file.
